Fallen

Chapter 3: The Keening

THE KEENING

Sylas trailed slow kisses across Ciatlllait’s forehead and down her cheek, along the line of her jaw, and worked down her neck. Her head bent back. She whispered his name in baritone…

“Sylas.”

Snap, snap.

“Sylas.”

Sylas’s eyes drifted from the view of the forest a short distance from castle Killeagh to his father who had been snapping his fingers to get his attention.

“Were you even listening?”

Sylas sighed. “No, Father. I wasn’t.”

Séan squeezed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I must go and treat with the king of the northern realm and I’m leaving you in….” he grimaced, “Gods it pains me. I’m leaving you in charge.” The words rushed from him with a hard breath.

Sylas leaned against the wall. He crossed his arms and fixed his sight on the forest once more. The mid-morning sun shone down on the canopy, ripe with summery emerald leaves. His eyes glazed over as he thought on the secret rendezvous he and Ciatlllait planned today. A robin flitted by the high window Sylas gazed from and he jostled in surprise.

“That’s it!” Séan threw his hands up. “I’m canceling the journey. You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.” Séan paced. “How can I trust that you’ll tend the kingdom competently and heed your grandfather’s counsel if you cannot even listen to directions.”

Sylas rolled his eyes. He raised his hand to his brow and saluted Séan.

Séan pulled his curly locks. His face reddened.

“You’re going to miss your carriage, Father,” Sylas muttered.

Séan straightened and fastened his traveling cloak about his shoulders. He pointed at Sylas. “You are expected in the throne room. Do not fail me, lad. The last time we asked you to do something, you fell in with robbers.”

Sylas smirked.

The rickety cart Rós rode within had gone over rut and rock, through hill and dale, and arrived at Summerseat. Rós looked on as Farmer conducted his business, selling two pigs and acquiring a new goat. The market was a bustling center of produce shadowed by linen overhangs and rotund, boisterous, bearded merchants. She wondered at the noise, the colors, the smells. They swirled together in a tussle. It was a restless place, completely parallel to home.

When business concluded, Farmer removed her from her cage and hugged her to his chest. He moved toward a stone structure that overshadowed all. Rós blinked up absently. Farmer’s rolling waddle lulled her. Iron men stood at guard near the entrance to a great hall where a long line of other humans waited. Farmer stroked Rós, pressing a stalk of vetch between his lips and muttering under his breath as though to reassure himself, “Chosen. Chicken.”

After some time, they moved forward into a large room. Rós she had never been inside such a place before. She bobbed her head as she took in the imagery of flags hanging from rafters above. The most prominent one, a crimson flag with a black and silver fox head embroidered upon it, unsettled her when it fluttered. She calmed begrudgingly after realizing it was not going to consume her.

A crush of people swarmed Farmer. Rós stared at them all, overwhelmed by the colors that mantled them. It was almost too much to process. Some glowed crimson with anger, with fear and anxiety. Others shrank with envious green, or dull, selfish yellow. Few were pink or lavender with serenity. Rós reckoned they were all here with problems. She’d seen Farmer enough when he was upset with Wife to know that the colors gave a person away.